Hughson A-Z: Edifice
by deeedeee
Summary: s6 pre-episode 1 SPOILERLERRT! Follows "Dubious." More speculation on the s6 spoilers. The great facades are crumbling...


**Follow-up to "Dubious." More speculation on that s6 spoiler.**

* * *

Quarter past three and counting, as she sits alone in the echoing downstairs. The small sounds of the house don't distract her. The corridors sound hollow, with everyon else — _everyone of sound mind_ , she thinks — gone up to bed ages ago. The only sound in the room is the incessant clock. On rare occasions she's wished she could smash the bloody thing on the floor.

 _Tick tock, and we're all getting older and older._

So they've managed to sort it at last. She knows he loves her; she thinks she knows he wants her. Facts and more facts, but it makes no sense to her that he should actually desire her. That this man who has never seen her body wants to commit to love it with his own.

 _With my body I thee worship._

Good Lord, is he really going to say that?

She tells herself that she can hardly hold herself up without her corset, for heaven's sake. No business imagining bedroom scenes at her age. And then there's that strange little lump. They never did take it out — there was no need — and it's never changed shape or size (thank _heaven_ for that; she doesn't want to think about the alternative), but it's just so… _present._

So he wants to touch her.

 _"To live as closely as two people can."_

He has no idea what he's getting; how can he be so sure? It scares her. She's never wanted anyone before.

That's a lie. She's never wanted anyone enough to _do_ anything about it.

Also a lie. She shakes her head, tapping nervous fingers on her desk.

Never wanted anyone enough to do something about it _and_ actually been in a position to do so. _Yes, that's about the size of it._

Her heart pounds as she wonders what he'll do when he first sees her. Because he _will_ see her. She won't disappoint him in that — ah, but he might be very disappointed indeed; that's the trouble! But she won't do the other — that is, she won't tell him she only wants his friendship. She couldn't lie to him.

Well — yes, she's lied to him before, but they were only ever little harmless things. Daisy's flu from the delivery boy comes to mind, and one corner of her mouth turns up for a moment.

But — she could never tell him such she doesn't love him because it would be cowardly. And a rotten lie. And it would crush him, as it would crush her. She knows this.

But _oh_...

How could it possibly work?

She's read Marie Stope's book; she knows more than she'd like to about the — well, about the mechanics of it. If she'd only left that book alone (not delved into it further than was strictly necessary to get rid of that little minx), maybe she wouldn't be in such a _state_.

 _How much does he know? Will he be gentle?_ But — of course he will be; from the way he looks at her, he obviously couldn't bear to hurt her.

Will he know to "woo" her as the book said, or will she have to _tell_ him?

She gasps and hides her face, alone in her sitting room. It's too embarrassing to contemplate.

Tears well in her eyes and she's grateful no one else is about. Will he kiss her? How will she kiss him? She'd never had a ... a real kiss. A _passionate_ one.

Will _he_ be passionate? Demanding?

" _Where is that young man now, so full of passion?"_

It's terrifying.

How long has he loved her?

How long has he thought of her like _that_?

" _...live as closely as two people can."_

She shivers, feeling a thrill run through her that worries her even more. She closes her eyes, resting her elbows on the desk, head in her hands. No, that won't do; she shifts a bit and then gives a sad little laugh, realizing she's automatically positioned herself such that no tears can drop onto the ledger.

The ledger indeed. _This_ is her realm. Ledgers, linens, the firm command of her army of girls. She's perfected the art of it. She never thought she'd leave. Never thought she'd be able to.

But now these _questions_.

The man who's worked at her side all these years, the man who sang for her but never spoke of it, first asking for her hand in a mortgage and then breaking her heart open with his real proposal.

 _He's not the only one who's fallen slowly in love. But_.

There's always been a 'but' and it's always been her refuge. They could never be. It wasn't done. And _no need to get sentimental about it._

She starts to cry, hard. She feels naked and adrift, weightless and constricted. Deep, wheezing, choking sobs make her grateful for the empty rooms all around her. But ah, this is no good; this is dangerous — the corset that holds her upright, it frowns upon profound emotion. It's too tight and she's feeling light-headed; she's losing air and she has to calm her body, _now_ , or she might actually faint. She'd probably do herself an injury, and wouldn't _that_ be embarrassing.

She tries to take deep, slow breaths, her hand pressed to her bosom. She knows that the embarrassment would be least among her worries if she actually did fall. But the rules of propriety have always been her armor, much as she's liked teasing _him_ about them, and it's easier to consider shallow embarrassment than the real implications of fainting from emotion. About him. About _them_. _Hysterics_ , she scolds herself. _That's quite enough of that._

All of this new, horrid vulnerability is laying her bare to her own harshness. She's normally not like this, not to herself!

... She'll be a _wife_.

 _His_ wife.

And all that passion — oh, clearly he's a man of passion; she's known that for ages — will be directed _at_ _her._ All that focus. The man who examines table settings with a measuring stick, doting upon her? He'll see every flaw. The thought makes her want to fasten buttons all the way up to her throat, but she has no such garment anymore.

Will he dote? Or would he rather… She shudders again. Will he want to get right to it, and leave her wanting? She's heard about that. ...That is, she's read about it in that book; she's never talked about this with _anyone_. Will he be disgusted when he finds out that she wants something from him? Does he know that she can — well. She's never felt it; she doesn't know what it is, exactly.

She's so tired. She needs to get out of this godforsaken corset.

The clock reads half-past three; maybe she'll be able to get some sleep.

* * *

 _it's not over yet..._

 _ **thank you for your reviews and tumblr love!**_


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